


Kiss me in your childhood bed

by rivers_bend



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas With Family, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2391845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen-year-old Harry Styles is excited to be spending Christmas with Nick Grimshaw's family. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he never in a million years expected to get to meet seventeen-year-old Nick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss me in your childhood bed

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know any of the people whose names or public personas are used in this story and neither believe nor mean to imply this ever happened. Though if Harry Styles ever _does_ discover time travel, I hope he shares it with the rest of us.
> 
> thank you so much to eloiserummaging who waved her beta wand over this <3

In the year since coming off X-Factor, Harry Styles has had to get used to unexpected things happening to him. Number one singles, and best-selling books, and record deals for more money than he imagined—even in his wildest dreams—seeing for another five years at least. He’s handling it pretty well, at least according to his mum, and even the press, but there are still things that will strike him at odd times and make him boggle. That _how is this my life?_ feeling hits him as he’s sitting down to Christmas dinner with Nick Grimshaw off Radio 1. In his parents’ house. Which is thirty miles from Harry’s parents’ house, which is definitely where he would have said he’d be tonight if you asked him a month ago. 

Maybe it makes sense, though, because the ways Nick has been unexpected are different from the X-Factor stuff. When Harry was still in school, he’d used to watch Nick on the telly, begging five extra minutes before his mum made him go do his homework because he loved the way Nick made everyone around him laugh. Thinking about that, when Harry caught sight of Nick’s place card on their table at the GQ dinner, he’d thought he might be a bit starstruck. Instead, Nick had just made him laugh, too, and laugh and laugh until Harry thought his face was going to crack with grinning. 

Falling in with Nick hadn’t been any harder than the way Harry’d fallen in with Niall and Louis and Zayn and Liam. Maybe even easier, a bit, because there isn’t any pressure. Down in London, Nick is just Harry’s mate—well, maybe a bit more than that—and the fact that he’s on the radio and always in the papers with his other famous friends doesn’t register. Nick’s been famous for much longer, but Harry’s pretty recognisable, too, and they just _fit_.

But up north, somehow it’s different. Here Harry is, not even old enough to legally buy the bottle of wine he’d brought as a hostess gift, being welcomed into the home of people he’d heard of long before he met them, because their son had mentioned them on his radio show. And they knew Harry before Nick ever started talking about him, because they’d watched him on their telly, right there the other side of the dining room wall, week after week. It’s surreal. 

Harry gives Nick a slightly awkward smile as he pulls out his chair and sits down next to him, but then he puts on his happiest grin for the rest of the table, because if he’s learned nothing else since deciding to audition for X-Factor, it’s the value of faking it ’til you make it. 

He doesn’t have to fake it long. Nick’s mum is an absolute sweetheart. His dad is a bit mental—Harry’s still not sure if he _actually_ thinks Harry’s name is Henry Stars, or if he’s taking the piss, and Nick doesn’t seem to know either—but he’s been nice, too. Lovely, really, especially considering Christmas is family time. 

As they’re clearing up after dinner, Nick’s friend Aimee, who’s also here for Christmas, gives Nick a not-remotely-subtle look and says she’ll sleep on the sofa if Harry’s staying over. 

Harry flushes, pleased but embarrassed, as he’s not sure what Nick’s told his mum and dad about his and Harry’s friendship, and Nick blanches. 

But Eileen—who’d insisted Harry call her that—doesn’t look shocked in the least. “You bunk in with Nick, Harry. You do him good,” she says, which makes Nick turn as red as Harry feels. Harry’s very glad Pete is in the kitchen clattering around with pots and pans.

“Look at them,” Aimee says to Eileen. Eileen grins at her and says, “I know.”

“Stop,” Nick demands petulantly. “I hate you both.” He grabs a bottle of wine in one hand and Harry’s elbow with the other, and they decamp to the lounge where no one looks ready to coo and pinch their cheeks.

Nick had only let Harry sleep in his bed in London for the first time less than a month ago, and they’ve barely had a chance to see each other since then, so Harry’s not surprised he’s a bit nervous about Harry sleeping with him when his parents are only just down the hall. 

“They are _so_ embarrassing,” Nick mutters, glancing at Harry through his eyelashes as he takes a swig straight from the bottle. 

“I’m glad they like me,” Harry says, holding his hand out for a sip. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Nick takes another gulp, but then hands the bottle over.

Harry isn’t sure how he’s looking, but he’s thinking about sucking Nick off in his childhood bed, so it’s possible Nick has a point. 

As Aimee, Eileen, and Pete come in, Nick steals the bottle back, and covers Harry’s face with one massive hand. “You’re still doing it,” he whispers, and presses his palm to Harry’s lips like a kiss before taking his hand back and offering the wine to Aimee. 

“We have perfectly good glasses,” Pete mutters, “no need to act like heathens.” 

“It’s London,” Nick teases. “Ruins the best of us.” 

“Too bloody right,” Pete agrees.

“Time for Doctor Who,” Eileen interjects, and they settle into watching TV.

Harry likes Doctor Who just fine, but there’s a picture of Nick and Liv on the end table, taken when Nick was about the age Harry is now, and he’s _adorable_ , looking at the camera like it’s physically painful to have to have his picture taken. Harry’s pretty sure Nick would say he looks awful in it, but Harry likes it. And it’s doing nothing to dampen Harry’s desire to get Nick upstairs, so it seems _ages_ before the episode is finally over and it’s time to go to bed.

Finally, though, Aimee’s downstairs, Pete and Eileen are behind closed doors two rooms away, and Harry’s got Nick all to himself. He’s even talked him into taking his shirt off so he’s all warm skin and prickly-tickly chest hair for Harry to rub against. It’s not quite as good as the first time they’d shared a bed, when Harry’d got Nick naked and had been allowed to turn the lights on and look his fill while he touched Nick everywhere. That had been amazing, and Harry will never forget it. Just as well, as the well-lit memories are giving Harry some guidance in the shifting shadows of Nick’s old bedroom. 

“Harold,” Nick whispers in a tone that implies they should definitely not be doing this. But his arms are wrapped just as tightly around Harry’s back as Harry’s are wrapped around his, and his thighs had parted easily for the press of Harry’s leg between them, so it’s not all that convincing an admonishment. Especially not once Nick starts sucking hot, biting kisses along Harry’s jaw, and groping Harry’s arse to pull his cock tighter into the cut of Nick’s hip. 

“Nick,” Harry whispers back—for a value of whisper that is more like desperate moan.

“Fuck,” Nick says, low. “Fuck. Fuck it.” 

Before Harry can wonder fuck _what_ , Nick’s got one hand fisted in Harry’s hair, the other shoved down the back of his boxer briefs, fingers spanning nearly the whole of Harry’s arse as he rolls them so Harry’s on top, riding Nick’s hip, grinding under the guidance of Nick’s palm. Fuck keeping his pants clean for sleeping in apparently.

Harry tries at least to last, to make it good for Nick too, but that’s seemingly not what Nick has in mind. 

“Shh, shh, come on … Come for me. Know you can … So quiet … So good … God, you’re so fucking hard—”

He’s whispering right into Harry’s mouth between kisses, using his grip on Harry’s hair to pull him away to give space to the words, and that’s as hot as the friction on Harry’s dick and the fingertips teasing along his arse crack. Doing his best to keep being good, keep being quiet so he doesn’t wake Nick’s parents, Harry does as Nick asked, and comes, shuddering against Nick’s chest, not caring one whit about the mess.

Not until he’s come down, anyway, lying on his back with Nick curled next to him, tracing patterns around his nipples in the dark. 

“I’m all gross,” Harry complains quietly, wondering if maybe Nick wants to get him something to clean up with.

“Bag’s just over there. You can always change your pants.” 

True. Harry could do that. But Nick’s not come yet, and Harry could— “Need a hand with that?” he asks, nudging his hip into the boner Nick’s still sporting.

“Heh heh, hand.” Nick squeezes Harry’s pec as if to make sure Harry knows he knows what a hand is. 

Harry will never get tired of Nick appreciating his puns. 

“Or mouth,” Harry says. Because they’ve done that a few times now and Harry really likes it. 

“Tempting. But I’m okay. Sometimes it’s nice to just— anticipate.” 

It stings, Nick saying that. Harry’d thought Nick was done beating himself up for wanting Harry back. But before Harry can complain, Nick kisses him hard on the corner of the mouth. “I really liked watching you,” he adds. “And Mum and Dad are out for a few hours tomorrow, and Aimee always says how much she likes walking in the country…” Harry knows this last part is a lie, but Aimee has been pretty willing to accommodate them. And Harry knows only too well how parents walking in can be a boner killer. 

“Okay,” he says, and kisses Nick back. “Tomorrow.” 

“Definitely.” Nick goes back to rubbing Harry’s chest. But it really does feel gross with Harry’s pants all full of jizz, and besides, he needs a piss. 

 

He’s halfway to the loo when he remembers he forgot to get clean underwear, but whatever. He can at least pee, and change when he gets back to Nick’s room. He gives himself and his pants a good wipe down with the face cloth Eileen left out for him on top of a stack of towels, then rinses it carefully before putting it up to dry. Aimee might be accommodating, but she doesn’t need to be confronted with jizz linens when she comes up to brush her teeth in the morning. 

Back in the hallway, he’s completely night blind from having the lights on in the bathroom, so he has to make his way to Nick’s room by feel. He goes through the door and closes it behind himself, and there’s no light at all. 

“Nick?” he says quietly, but there’s no response. Not even breathing. He starts to feel claustrophobic, which is weird. That’s not his thing. Niall’s described it enough times that he’s pretty sure this is it though. He reaches out his hands to reassure himself the walls aren’t closing in, but they are. Strange, fabric walls, rough and nubbly—he grabs again, desperate to find empty air—but finds smooth, cool cotton instead, and bangs his wrist on something hard, and he’s dizzy. Feels like he might throw up. Like he had three bottles of wine instead of three glasses with dinner. He flails out a third time, needing something to grab hold of so he doesn’t fall, and gets a shelf. Of towels from the feel of it. The spinning slows and stops. 

Huh. He must have somehow walked into the airing cupboard instead of Nick’s room. He didn’t realize it would be so big. It’s much more like one of those giant closets on the American House Hunters shows than an English one, but still, just an airing cupboard. Those aren’t scary. He can just back up and try again for Nick’s door. At least his eyes should be adjusted to the dark now. 

With the help of a nightlight outside Jane’s old room—odd he hadn’t noticed it earlier—Harry finds Nick’s door easily. Once there, though, he can’t find his duffle in the corner where he’d left it. Nick’s sleep snuffling softly from the bed, so Harry doesn’t want to turn the light on. Instead, he slips out of his wet briefs and slides under the covers. He’ll have the duvet over him if Nick’s family decides to come in without knocking, and it’s not like Nick doesn’t know Harry prefers to sleep naked. 

Nick, on the other hand, seems to have put on a t-shirt and sweats while Harry was gone. “How rude,” Harry murmurs teasingly. He smiles a little smile to himself as he curls around Nick’s back. He loves getting to see Nick with his family. It’s a whole different side to him, and Harry wants to see all of his sides. 

Nick snorts in his sleep, and Harry presses a soft kiss to his shoulder. His shirt smells strong, and not of Nick’s usual cologne. More like the lads’ room in the X-Factor house: boy and body spray and deodorant.

Harry’s last thought before sleep pulls him down is that Nick must have got it out of the wardrobe and not the bag he brought up from London. 

~*~

Nick is going to _die_ he’s so hot. He’s sure he only had the one duvet on when he went to bed, but now he must have at least forty blankets on top of him. Hot ones. And heavy. But it’s Christmas holidays, and he’s not got college for two more weeks, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes this early. It must be early, because he hasn’t heard Jane outside the door trying to convince Liv to _let Uncle Nick sleep just a bit longer, love._ Liv is great, but now she’s old enough to really form opinions on things, she wants to treat Nick to them every morning before he’s even had his breakfast. 

If he doesn’t wake up enough to get these blankets off him, Nick will die of heat stroke though. With an almighty shove, Nick attempts to heave the covers off, and they groan in response. Like a zombie, or a coffin lid in a horror movie. Or like Nick when his mum comes in to wake him for school two minutes before his alarm goes off. 

Nick’s eyes snap open and he screams. Just a little. More of a shout, really. A manly cry of surprise. 

“Mraghaahh,” the covers say. 

Only it’s not covers. It’s a person. A boy. A boy with lots of brown hair curling around a sleep-crumpled face. A boy with bare shoulders.

“Aargh!” Nick cries again, though more quietly this time since he’s awake enough to know he doesn’t want his whole family rushing in to find out what’s going on. Especially as he doesn’t have an answer for them. 

“Nick?” The boy, whom Nick has definitely never seen before, says, pulling in on himself, making Nick realize the source of the heat was this boy lying half on top of him. 

“Who are you?” Nick demands. “How did you get in here?” Without thinking, Nick lifts up the duvet to get a better look at the boy in his bed. The boy doesn’t just have bare shoulders. He’s naked. Completely naked. Like, that is his penis right there. Blurry, because Nick doesn’t have his glasses on yet, but penis. Half hard. Mostly hard? Big, is Nick’s point. And right _there_ in Nick’s bed. Naked. “You’re naked!” Nick squawks, slamming his fist full of duvet down on the mattress, covering everything but the boy’s head and shoulders again. 

“Nick?” The boy repeats. He looks as confused as Nick feels, but this is not possible, because he knows Nick’s name, and Nick doesn’t have a fucking clue who he is. 

“Stop saying that!” Nick can hear the panic in his own voice. He doesn’t like it. This is his room. He’s in charge here. Careful not to touch the boy, he reaches over him to get his glasses off the nightstand, and takes a deep breath, putting them on. Everything’s fine. He can do this. He’s going to take control of the situation.

“What’s your name?” he says, trying to sound reassuring, but falling a bit short. 

“Harry,” the boy says, pushing his hair off his face. Damn. He’s cute. Why is there a cute, naked boy in Nick’s bed? Not that he hasn’t ever— Maybe he’s dreaming. Nick’s had dreams like this. Fantasies even. But he’d always thought there would be a bit of lead-up to the naked part if it happened in reality. 

“I’m Harry,” the boy says again, peering up at him. “And you’re Nick. At least—“ He goes up on one elbow to glance around. “This is Nick’s room. Mostly? You’ve got more posters now. Then? Shit. What the fuck is going _on_?” 

“That’s what I’ve been asking,” Nick reminds him. What the fuck is going on, indeed. 

With a tentative hand, Harry reaches out to touch Nick’s hair where it’s hanging over one eye. Nick’s been doing some fringe experiments over break. He’s not sure how he feels about them. “It’s like the passport picture,” Harry mutters to himself. “He must be— Are you doing your exams? A-levels?” 

“Who’s shown you pictures? Did Jane put you up to this?” Nick is going to kill Jane. Not that Nick doesn’t appreciate— just. It would be nice if there was a cute boy who _wanted_ to be here. 

“That would be so much easier.” Harry frowns. It gives him a dimple. Who has a dimple when they frown?

“So much easier than what?” Nick asks, though he’s starting to wonder if he actually wants to know. 

“Can I maybe borrow some pants?” 

Somehow in the last thirty seconds, Nick had managed to block out the fact that he is currently sitting on a bed with a boy who is only wearing a duvet, so Harry’s question makes him flush hot and probably alarmingly red. “Yeah,” he mumbles into his chest. “Sure.” 

Being careful not to drag the duvet with him, Nick scrambles off the bed and over to his chest of drawers. Today’s laundry day, so he hasn’t got a lot of choices, but there are a few pairs of not-too-embarrassingly-old pants, and a pair of faded but probably big enough dinosaur pjs. He throws them onto the bed. “Do you want a t-shirt, too?” 

“Um,” Harry says. He’s looking at the dinosaur pjs the way Nick’s mum looks at baby shoes when they’re down the shops. Like he might start cooing at any moment. 

“I’ll get you a t-shirt,” Nick says. The first clean one he finds is The Smiths. Morrissey goes with dinosaurs, he’s pretty sure. 

Nick hands it over. “I’ll just go. To the—” He gestures toward the hall and the bathroom beyond. “Let you get dressed.” He doesn’t mean to look like he’s fleeing, but even he has to admit that he does. 

Once in the bathroom, he takes his glasses off again so he can rub his eyes and splash his face with cold water. If he’s asleep, this is definitely the most vivid dream he’s ever had. The bathroom looks just the same as it did when he went to bed, dot of Liv’s toothpaste on the mirror, Jane’s tampons on the back of the loo, and Nick’s towel hung haphazardly over the rail next to the shower and all. Improbable as it is, the boy in his bed—Harry—had seemed no less real. 

Nick has a piss, washes his hands, and his face again for good measure, and brushes his teeth. Surely that’s long enough for Harry to put some clothes on, but Nick stays staring at himself in the mirror anyway. He’d thought being seventeen would be better than being sixteen, but so far it’s not. He’s still spotty, and lumpy, and his hair is impossible, and he’d thought he was getting better glasses last time he went to the eye doctor, but they’re awful and he can’t get new for ages, and he’s starting to think that this thing where he fancies blokes is _not_ just a phase he’s going through, but he still seems to be the only lad in school who does, which is shite, and now there’s a very pretty boy in his bed and Nick doesn’t know why. And he wasn’t even drinking last night. Not even one glass of wine, because his mum is saving it all for Christmas Eve. He really will kill Jane if this is her fault somehow. 

With one last sigh at his pathetic reflection, Nick heads back to his bedroom. Where Harry is, indeed, all dressed, and seems to be looking for something down the back of Nick’s bedside table. 

“Did you drop something?” Nick asks, making him jump. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“I was just looking for my phone,” Harry says. The pjs are loose on his hips, threatening to fall down, and the t-shirt hangs off his shoulders, but the elastic of Nick’s boxers seems secure around his waist, so he should stay covered. 

Wait. Did he say _phone_? “You have like a mobile? Of your own? How old are you?” 

Harry’s face does a thing Nick can’t follow, then Harry says, “Right. It’s—” He mumbles something and seems to be counting on his fingers. “It’s, yeah. I’m seventeen. But, um. My— mum? travels a lot, so she got it for me in case… But I don’t think I brought it with me.” 

“You still haven’t told me how you got in here, speaking of that,” Nick says. He’s still standing just inside his door which puts Harry about five feet away from him. Nick isn’t sure if he should sit back on the bed or not. 

But, “Can we sit?” Harry asks, gesturing for Nick to come join him, which answers that question. 

“You’re really good at avoiding questions,” Nick says, but he sits. “My mum says I’m an expert, but you’re like. Wow.” 

“Sorry,” Harry says. “I’m just really not sure where to start.” 

“How. Did. You. Get. In. Here?” Nick repeats. “That seems like an easy one.” 

“Ha.” Harry rubs a hand over his face, then pick’s up one of Nick’s pillows and hugs it. “You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he says. 

“Just tell me.” Nick mostly already thinks he’s crazy, so it probably can’t get much worse.

“You invited me. In 2011. I’m your— We’re—” Harry shrugs. 

“It’s 2001,” Nick says. “Not even 2002 for two more weeks.” He shouldn’t have cursed himself by thinking for the best. Of course it could get worse. 

“But last night when I went to sleep it was 2011. Or at least when you and I got into bed. Then I got up to pee and I accidentally walked into the airing cupboard and when I came back I couldn’t find my duffle and you were wearing those clothes, so it might have happened some time then. I’ve been trying to figure that out.”

He really _is_ crazy. Nick woke up with a naked lunatic in his bed. Great. “What do you mean you walked _into_ the airing cupboard? It’s just shelves. There’s no in to go.” 

Harry does that dimply frown again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you can’t walk in. You open it up and there’s just shelves, and you get a towel and close the door again. Only, like, a mouse could walk in there. Maybe a cat.” 

“To chase the mouse,” Harry says, smiling at his own joke. “Except it’s big when it’s being a time travel portal, I guess.” 

Ugh. He’s so fit but he’s _so_ weird. “It’s not being a time travel portal. I’m pretty sure I would know if something like that existed in my parents’ house.”

“Except it clearly exists because I’m here, and how else would I be here?”

“Jane still could have let you in.” 

Harry buries his face in the pillow and makes a muffled noise that sounds a lot like the frustration Nick’s feeling. When he looks up again, his face is all pink. “Jane didn’t let me in. Why would she? What possible reason—wait. Does she know you’re gay already? Is that why?”

Nick’s entire body bursts into flame. Mostly his face. And his chest. And his armpits, which turn into little molten waterfalls. “Did she tell you?” Nick chokes out. 

“No,” Harry says, handing Nick the other pillow like maybe that will prevent the spontaneous human combustion that’s happening right now. 

Not that Nick doesn’t take it. Not that it doesn’t help. A little. “So, who told you, then?”

“I’m gay too, or, well, bi, or you know,” Harry says hurriedly. Nick would like to assure him he _doesn’t_ know. Harry’s just saying it like it’s not a big deal. “Labels are— whatever. That’s not the point. The point is I’m really glad you’re gay. So you don’t need to be mad.” 

While Nick stares dumbly at Harry’s earnest face, his brain ticks over all the things Harry’s said in the last five minutes. Things like _I’m your—_ , and _when you and I got into bed_ , and _I’m really glad you’re gay_ , and it comes up with this crazy idea. Crazier even than time travel. “Are you trying to say that future me is your _boyfriend_?”

There is no way any version of Nick is dating someone this hot. Besides, Harry’d said he’s seventeen, and in 2011 Nick will be practically _old_. Unless Harry de-aged somehow when he went back in time. Not that he _did_ go back in time. But if he had— except that doesn’t make any sense, because he would have told Nick whatever age he thinks he is, and he definitely doesn’t look seven. Or twenty-seven. Nick’s got confused about what direction that would go in.

“Future you probably wouldn’t put it in quite those words, but—” Harry gives Nick a small smile; it also produces a dimple. “Yes. In 2011 your being gay is relevant to my orgasms. I probably shouldn’t tell you that. I probably shouldn’t tell you anything. I guess it’s a bit late now, though.” 

“How do you— Do I get freakishly hot in 2011?” 

Harry looks perplexed. “You get better hair. And don’t take this wrong, but those glasses aren’t really your best ones ever? But I mean—” Harry gestures vaguely in Nick’s direction. “I totally would, now, you know? Except I probably shouldn’t do that, either. I should have read more time travel books. Or seen like— I watched Terminator once, but hopefully killer robots aren’t part of this scenario. Gemma was into that stuff. I would call her, but she’s only, like, ten now, so she probably doesn’t know anything yet.” 

Watching Harry talk is fascinating. He’s so _slow_. But not like stupid slow, just like the words take a while to come out of his mouth. He has a really good mouth. And he’s not horrified by the idea of having orgasms with Nick. 

“Who’s Gemma?” That seems like the safest thing to ask.

“She’s my sister. She would definitely think I’m crazy if I told her about this.”

“I still pretty much think you’re crazy,” Nick admits.

“I don’t know how to prove I’m not. If I had my phone, I could show you pictures, but all I have is a pair of dirty pants.”

There’s an insane moment where Nick imagines examining Harry’s pants to see if that tells him if Harry’s really from the future, but before he can analyze that thought too closely, he wonders if Harry’s, like, mega rich if he has a phone with pictures on. 

“Oh, wait. I could tell you something only you could have told me. Like. You want Sara Cox’s job?”

“Literally every person I’ve ever known could have told you that,” Nick says. “It’s not a secret.” It’s pretty cool that Nick’s still telling people that in ten years, though, if Harry is telling the truth. Unless— “Wait. Do I _have_ the Breakfast Show? Did that happen?” 

“Your job definitely falls into the category of things I’m not telling you.” Harry looks very stern, except he’s also kind of smiling, and Nick lets himself hope for a tiny second that maybe Harry is actually from the future, and future Nick has his actual dream job. 

“What are you here for then, if not to tell me things about my future?” 

“I wish I knew.” 

Nick tries for the next twenty minutes to get more out of him, but Harry doesn’t seem to know what to say. When Nick finally abandons the questions, they sneak into the hall and Harry tries to show him the time portal in the airing cupboard. As Nick expected, it’s shelves of sheets and towels just like he’d said, and neither of them can think of anything to do to change it back. 

“Nick!” Nick’s dad bellows up the stairs just as they’ve given up. “Come help your mother with this washing.” 

“Shit.” Nick looks at Harry in Nick’s pajamas. “We should probably pretend you came over this morning,” he hisses to Harry. “Be right there, Dad.” Wary eye on Jane’s door in case she or Liv are still upstairs, he shoves Harry back into his bedroom. “See what you can find that fits you. Clothes. Not more pjs. Mum’ll have errands soon and we can pretend you got here while she was gone.” Harry looks surprised, and a bit confused, but he doesn’t argue. As Nick shuts the door on him, he can’t help wondering if Harry will be gone by the time he comes back for him. 

It would make everything a lot easier, but he can’t help hoping the answer is no.

 

Forever and _ever_ is how long it takes to get the washing off the radiators folded and hang up the things in the washer, but when he’s done, Nick’s mum goes out to get the shopping, and his dad is asleep on the sofa, and Jane’s car isn’t in the drive, so she must be gone too, so Nick’s safe to go back up and see if there’s still a strange boy in his room. 

There is. Harry’s found an old pair of Nick’s school trousers and a canvas slide belt. He’s still wearing the Smiths t-shirt, sitting on Nick’s bed reading one of his books from school. “Are you hungry?” Nick asks, chest hot and cold with relief that Harry hasn’t disappeared into thin air. 

“Starved,” Harry admits. 

They’re in the kitchen eating toast and bowls of cereal when Nick’s mum comes back. Harry’s jumped up before Nick even registers the door opening. 

“Hi,” Harry says, bustling to Nick’s mum’s side. “I’m Harry. One of Nick’s mates from college? Let me help you with those.” 

While Nick’s mum is still stammering hello, Harry empties her hands of shopping and starts setting bags on the counter. “Are there more in the car?” he asks. “My mum always has extra bags this time of year.” 

Harry’s bare ankles are peeking out the bottom of his trousers. He’s got no shoes on. He can’t very well go outside like that in the middle of winter. “I’ll go, Mum,” Nick says.

“Well.” Eileen looks back and forth between them. “I don’t ever remember Nick mentioning you, Harry, but if it’s going to get him doing some work around here, you’re welcome any time.” 

“I just helped you with the washing half an hour ago,” Nick protests. 

“After your dad asked. There’s three more carrier bags and a case of Cokes in the boot, there’s a love.” She shoos Nick toward the kitchen door. While he’s shoving his feet into his trainers, he catches her saying to Harry, “You’re tall. You can help me put these biscuits up the top here. Thank you.” The smile Harry sends Nick over his mother’s shoulder is fond, and Nick can’t see so much as a hint of desperation, so he goes to do as he was told. 

In the time it takes Nick to get the rest of the shopping in, Harry and Nick’s mum become best friends. He’s convinced her to crack open one of the packets of Christmas biccies, and he’s got the kettle on and is fussing around the teapot Mum only gets out for nice. 

“Why’ve you never brought Harry around before?” she asks as Nick takes over putting the shopping away. “He’s a dear.” 

“We only just met,” Nick mutters. Harry’s going to want to hang out down here with his mum all day, and he’ll never get him to himself again, find out more about this supposed future Harry comes from. Or more about the truth if, as Nick suspects, that future bit is a lie.

As Harry and Nick’s mother sit and chat over tea and biscuits, Nick has to make himself a cup of coffee, since no one thought to ask if he wanted one or not. They’re still talking when Nick sits down across from Harry’s seat. He does his best not to stare, but Harry’s not like anyone Nick’s ever met before, so it’s not easy. Talking to Nick’s mum, he seems older than Nick, older than the other kids at Nick’s college, but he only looks about fifteen in Nick’s too-big shirt. Well, sixteen. Definitely old enough for Nick to be kissing. Not that there will be kissing. Even though Harry’d said— but he won’t have meant that he’d _actually_ kiss Nick. Not on the mouth. 

Besides: he thinks he’s from the future, and probably that is a good sign that Nick should stay as far away from him as possible. 

“Can we go up to my room?” Nick interrupts his mum to ask. “There’s some music I want to play for him.” 

“Don’t be rude, Nick,” Nick’s mum says. But she starts gathering up the teapot. “Ah, go on, then. I’ve things to do anyway.” 

“Thank you for the tea,” Harry says politely. “And the chocolate biscuits.” 

Nick’s mum smiles like she mostly only does at Liv. “You’re welcome, love. Will you be here for lunch?” 

“Muuummmm,” Nick complains. “We don’t know. We might have things to do.” He grabs Harry by the wrist and drags him to the stairs.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks once they’re behind Nick’s closed bedroom door. He looks very concerned. 

“Mum was going to talk to you _forever_. Or at least until Dad woke up, and then _he’d_ want to hear all about your subjects at college, and we’d never get to come back up here.” Nick realizes he has no idea what Harry’s doing at college. If he’s even at college. “What subjects are you doing, anyway?” 

Harry looks sheepish. “I was going to do English and Sociology, and something I hadn’t decided yet, but I kind of—got a job before I could do them.” 

“A job? Is that how future me met you? In the future do we _both_ work at Radio 1?” 

“Ha,” Harry says. “Still not telling you. But we did meet through work, I guess.” 

“What good are you, anyway?” Nick asks, gesturing Harry toward the bed since his desk chair is broken, and it’s not like they weren’t both sitting there with Harry in a lot fewer clothes only an hour ago. Harry shrugs and sits. Nick heads for his CD player. “My dad would kill me if I didn’t do A-levels. Weren’t your—” Harry hasn’t actually mentioned his parents, Nick realizes. “Is it just you and your sister?” 

“No. My mum, too. And my dad, but he hasn’t lived with us for a long time. I’ve got a, basically a stepdad, though. Mum wanted me to go to Uni, but she’s proud of me. It’s— Heyyy. Stop asking questions. I’m not supposed to tell you stuff.” 

“Says who, though?” Nick asks, flicking past Madonna and Michael Jackson, wondering where his new Prince album has got to. “You’re the one who made that rule up. Why do you get to make up rules? You said your sister knows more about time travel.” 

“Everyone knows you’re not supposed to change the future, though.” Harry says. “I like our future. I want it to stay the same.” 

“Maybe this is how it gets the way you like it, though,” Nick argues. “You must have come here for a reason. It’s not like Mum’s airing cupboard spends its life as a time portal.” He finds _Rave In2 the Joy Fantastic_ in the Rs, which makes him suspect someone was borrowing it without asking. Again. “Do you like Prince?” 

“Who doesn’t like Prince?” Harry asks. 

Everyone should like Prince, but lots of people don’t. Nick puts Prince in Harry’s plus column. (Not that there’s much in the minus column besides ‘thinks he’s a time traveller’, and Nick’s actually starting to believe him about that, god knows why.)

“Well, you should listen to this album. It’s really good.” 

“Bet you’ve played it to me before,” Harry says. “But hit me.” 

Nick hits play and goes to join Harry on the bed. 

“Oh definitely,” Harry says. “You made me take one of your ear buds and we listened to this on the train back from Manchester once.” Before Nick can protest that there is no way he would ever let anyone listen to music through only one ear, Harry adds, “I had to promise I’d heard it before or you would have made me take both of them.” 

“You’re not meant to listen to only half of it. That’s what jack splitters are for.” 

“You’re not meant to listen with shitty stock earbuds either, or so you keep telling me. But I think we were both trying to be romantic.” 

Nick doesn’t think it sounds at all romantic to listen to half a stereo track on shitty headphones, but he can see how maybe if Harry wanted to sit close and share something with you, that would make up for a lot of bad sound quality. “Was it like a date?” Nick asks. 

Harry nudges Nick’s thigh with his knee. Nick hadn’t even noticed he’d sat down so close to him. “I wanted it to be a date. But you kept making a big deal about how great it was that we were friends, because that wasn’t long after we met, and it took ages for you to figure out I fancy you, even though I kept saying.” 

Now _that_ makes perfect sense. Nick still can’t figure out why Harry would fancy him. Even a future him that apparently has a job and better hair. “Do you live in Manchester, then?” Nick asks. 

“No,” Harry answers. “I’m from around here, but—fuck it. It’s too hard to figure out what I’m allowed to tell you.” 

Nick is tempted to ask him a hundred questions about the future in this moment of weakness, but he’s apparently started to actually believe Harry, because enough of him is convinced knowledge will somehow ruin this dream life where he’s got a hot boyfriend and possibly his dream job. He’s trying to think what to say instead when he blurts out, “Were there other gay blokes at school with you?” 

Harry looks as surprised to hear the question as Nick was to ask it. “I … I don’t know. I just dated girls in school.” 

“Oh,” Nick says, disappointed. He’d hoped—though it’s kind of cool if Harry likes him well enough to date him even though he’s mostly only dated girls before. “Am I— Was future me like your first then? Your first boyfriend?” 

The look Harry gives him has way too many layers for Nick to read. He can’t even tell if it’s mostly happy or mostly sad. “There was someone—a boy—before you, but for a lot of things you’re my first, too. It’s complicated.” Nick decides mostly sad. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, though he’s not sure what he’s sorry for. 

Harry smiles, slow and sweet. “Don’t be sorry. It’s good. We’re— We’re good.” 

“Am I your rebound?” That would explain why someone like Harry was with someone like Nick. 

Harry shoves him, not that hard, but taking him by surprise enough it’s easier to tip onto his back than stay upright. Harry follows him down, half lying on him and getting right up in his face. “Don’t be a dick. You’re not my rebound. You’re hot, and funny, and sweet even though you hate admitting it, and everyone loves you. _Everyone_. Stop putting yourself down.” 

Nick can’t answer. He can hardly breathe. Harry’s hands are on his forearms, pinning them up by his shoulders, and he can feel Harry’s lungs filling and emptying against his ribs, and Harry’s mouth is _right there_ , where if Nick lifted his head just a few inches, he could kiss it. This is the closest he’s ever been to kissing a boy, and it’s a boy who says he fancies him, but Nick can’t. He _can’t_. It’s—

“Fuck, I want to kiss you,” Harry breathes. Right there inches from Nick’s mouth. “I shouldn’t. But, you’re just so—”

Nick can’t take it. He can’t bear to hear what ‘so’ Harry thinks he is. Harry wants to kiss him. And Nick has never, ever, _ever_ wanted anything in his entire life as much as he wants to kiss Harry. And what if the time portal sucks Harry back and they’ve changed something so future him doesn’t get to have Harry as a boyfriend, and this is the only moment in all the universes where Nick Grimshaw gets to kiss him. 

Still, _still_ , he can’t quite lift his head and do it. But he can say, “Please,” in a voice he doesn’t even recognize as his own. “Please,” he says again, a bit less strangled this time. 

“Fuck,” Harry says, soft but filled with feeling. Then he’s letting go Nick’s arms to hold his face instead, tilting him just a fraction, so when their lips come together there’s no awkward bumping of noses. 

Which doesn’t mean no awkward at all. The noise Nick makes is definitely awkward, as is the fact he has no idea what to do with his hands so they’re sort of hovering in the air by Harry’s shoulders. And the way his dick is getting really hard after like four seconds of lip-to-lip contact. 

But Harry doesn’t seem to mind about any of that. He’s still cupping Nick’s face, moving his lips slow and firm, using just the tip of his tongue to encourage Nick to join in and not just lie there like a stunned pillock. And Nick should do that. It’s not like he’s never, with anyone. He’s kissed a few girls. He knows how kissing works. He can—

So of course that’s when Harry pulls away, hands slipping down to Nick’s neck, thumbs just brushing his jaw. “You okay?” he asks. He looks very concerned. “I thought—”

Nick’s hands choose that moment to stop being awkward, and find their way into Harry’s hair, tangling and tugging just enough to get Harry back in kissing distance. “I’m—yeah. Just, you’re so _hot_.” Which, smooth, Grimshaw. Way to sound cool. 

Cool enough, though, because Harry smiles that slow sweet smile again, and presses the curve of it to Nick’s mouth. And this time, Nick doesn’t freeze. He kisses back, opening when he feels the flick of Harry’s tongue, using the tricks he’d learned from Liz the night they’d tried to make her ex jealous, and from Helena the night they got bored watching Top Gear. Harry seems to like it, throwing one leg over Nick’s thighs, pulling him closer. And that’s— Nick’s pretty sure that’s Harry’s dick on his hip. Not hard, but not exactly soft, either, and Harry doesn’t seem embarrassed about it at all. Which maybe means that Nick doesn’t have to be embarrassed that Harry’s leg is creeping closer to where his own dick is quite a lot harder than not soft. Like, all the way harder. Harry’s a really good kisser.

And, okay, maybe Nick’s just a _little_ bit desperate. 

“Can I?” Harry asks, kissing Nick’s cheek, his jaw. “Touch you?” 

Nick stares. And blinks. And goes over the words in his head again. “Touch me, like…” 

“Like…” Harry’s right hand drags down Nick’s chest, across his belly, then slows just before it hits the waistband of his jeans. “Like, touch you. Here.” Harry’s pinky reaches out towards Nick’s dick but doesn’t touch it. Nick wants him to touch it. 

He opens his mouth, but it just makes a dry clicking sound, so he has to nod instead. Fortunately, Harry’s watching him intently, so catches the tiny movement. 

“Tell me if you don’t—” Harry keeps watching Nick’s face as he slips his hand down to cup Nick’s dick. 

It’s a lot. The touching and the looking all at once, and Nick doesn’t want to stop the touching, so he closes his eyes and yanks Harry down to kiss him again. Too hard probably, but Harry doesn’t protest beyond a tiny squeak of surprise, so Nick doesn’t stop to apologise. 

This is a lot too, but it’s manageable with his eyes closed. Harry’s rocking his palm across the length of Nick’s cock, sucking on Nick’s lower lip, flicking at it with his tongue, and Nick wonders—not that he’s expecting anything—but he wonders if Harry’s ever sucked future Nick’s dick. If that’s something he maybe gets to look forward to. Probably a blow job from Harry is worth waiting ten years for.

“Mmm,” Harry murmurs, moving to lavish attention on Nick’s top lip for a while instead. He’s also doing things with that hand: fingers, Nick’s balls, and pressure and friction, and what if Nick comes in his pants. What if he comes in his pants and _Harry stops touching him_? 

Nick’s hand shoots down to where Harry’s is doing really awesome things to his junk, and presses down. Hard. Putting a stop to the friction and to the about-to-come feeling coiling there, and, sadly, to the really hot things Harry’s doing with his mouth. 

“Should I stop?” Harry says, keeping his hand perfectly still, but not trying to pull away. 

“No,” Nick assures him breathlessly. “No. I just didn’t want to—” He can’t say it. Can’t admit out loud that he was in danger of coming in his pants from three minutes of kissing and ninety seconds of rutting into Harry’s hand. He can feel himself blushing like a tomato, though. 

“Have you ever— What if I blow you? Would you be okay with—” Harry’s mouth twitches like he doesn’t want to say anything that might embarrass Nick further. “Would you for me then?” 

_For him._ Harry just said ‘for him’, like if Nick came it would be a favour for Harry and not something that ought to make Nick want to crawl into a hole to die of shame, all alone. 

“You want that?” Nick would love to say he didn’t squeak it, but he absolutely did. 

Harry laughs, a low, warm chuckle. “Yes, I want that. Best part of sex, making the other person come.” 

Nick had always thought the best part of sex was coming yourself, but he’s never actually made another person come before, so maybe he shouldn’t judge. “If you say so.” 

“I’d love to blow you. Or I could just—” Harry twitches his fingers under the grip of Nick’s hand in a way Nick takes to mean _finish this over-your-jeans handjob_. 

A better man might think about how his parents are right downstairs. Or how Harry claims to have time-travelled in an airing cupboard from the future. Where he’s twenty-seven-year-old Nick’s sort-of boyfriend. And is therefore, kind of, sort of, maybe a little bit cheating if he puts seventeen-year-old Nick’s dick in his mouth. A better man might ease his grip on Harry’s hand and say, “This is fine.” Or even push Harry off completely and say, “Maybe we shouldn’t?” 

Nick is not a better man. Nick is a seventeen-year-old virgin with an insanely hot boy offering to suck him off. Never mind offering. _Asking_ to suck him off, like it will be as good for him as it would be for Nick. 

“Fuck,” Nick says. “Really? Suck me?” 

“Suck you,” Harry agrees. And the next thing Nick knows, he’s being encouraged farther onto the bed and Harry’s moving down, pushing Nick’s legs apart, undoing Nick’s flies, and _oh_. He definitely wasn’t kidding. Or playing around. 

“Lemme—” _Help_. Nick’s gonna say help, and he’s gonna to undo a button, or push his jeans out of the way, or— He’s not even sure what. But Harry’s crouched between Nick’s knees, fingers curled around his jeans and pants both, lifting and tugging and easing them over the bulge of Nick’s dick, and he’s _smiling_ , like this is the best possible use of his morning, and what Nick’s going to _actually_ do is lie there, propped on his elbows with a dopy grin on his face, and stare at Harry doing all the work. 

Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He’s still smiling, and Nick is almost certain he says, “Hi,” in a soft fond voice when he pulls Nick’s dick out, and then he’s settling on his belly, legs hanging off the end of the bed, kissing the exposed skin of Nick’s hip, the squidgy white bulge of Nick’s belly, and god, why did Nick agree to this? Harry can see— Can see— 

_Fuuuuck_. Nick can’t see what Harry can see, because Harry’s mouth is on his dick and Nick’s elbows can’t hold him up anymore and he’s flat on his back with his arms wrapped around his face. And his dick. In a boy’s mouth. A beautiful, strange, time-travelling boy who smiles like Nick is amazing, and likes Nick’s mum, and—ow!—just yanked out a chunk of Nick’s pubes, probably with one of his rings, but his mouth is so _wet_ and so _hot_ and he’s—with his tongue, there’s a thing that he’s doing, and if Nick had known, had really _understood_ what a blow job was like, he might have tried harder to get one sooner. It’s so—nothing like jerking off. It’s scary, a little, in a good way, a way that makes his stomach jump and lurch, makes Harry rest a hand on where the muscles can’t stay still, and he’s not laughing at Nick’s pudge or calling him names; he’s stroking it soft and soothing and sexy. Nick risks a peek under his arms, and Harry’s looking up at him, eyes huge and shining, and his mouth is pink and wet, bumping his own fingers where he’s jerking Nick off and sucking him at the same time. It feels so good. Feels like sex, and Nick gasps a half-choked laugh, because it _is_ sex, this is sex, and he’s having it, with a boy. In his bed. _Sex_. 

Sex is amazing. But should definitely be more naked. Why is he wearing so many clothes. Nick’s skin is going to melt off. He’ll be a skeleton—a pile of bones with a boner—and why did he think that? That’s gross. But he’s even hotter than when he woke up this morning with Harry cuddling him. Naked Harry. Who is now sucking his dick. Fuck. 

There’s no time for any warning, barely even time to suck in a scrap of air to sustain him, before Nick’s arching off the bed, coming, _into Harry’s mouth_ , because Harry hasn’t stopped. 

He isn’t stopping. 

Nick is nothing but wet sucking friction on the head of his dick and hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest and a stinging line along both palms. 

“Uuuugh,” Nick squeaks, unclenching his fists—easing his fingernails out of the dents they’ve made—and trying to coordinate his arms enough to push Harry away. “Too much.” 

“Sorry,” Harry says, clearly, because his mouth isn’t full anymore. But there’s still— Nick focuses, and Harry’s got his hand wrapped around Nick’s dick, squeezing a bit, rubbing the tip with his thumb. “Oh! Sorry,” he repeats when Nick paws weakly at his wrist. Harry puts both hands flat on Nick’s thighs, props his chin on the one he just had wrapped around Nick’s dick. “You feel good. I forgot you’re not—”

“Not him?” Nick finishes for him. It’s stupid to be jealous of himself, but Nick’s a little jealous of himself. 

“Not yet,” Harry says kindly, which Nick hates—Harry doesn’t need to _know_ he’s jealous—but it’s hard not to forgive him while he’s kissing the crease at the top of Nick’s thigh. 

“What would he do now?” Nick asks. He’s pretty sure that even if Harry’s favorite part of sex is giving someone else an orgasm, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to come at all. And he’s also pretty sure that he’s not as ready to try giving a blow job as he was to try getting one. A hand job, though. He’s definitely up for that. 

“Depends,” Harry says, nuzzling his nose where he’d just kissed. “If you’re about to go shower anyway, you might let me jerk off on you…” 

Nick wasn’t necessarily going to shower, but he wasn’t necessarily _not_ going to shower, either, and that sounds hot. “Can I help?” he asks, because hot or not, he hasn’t given up on the idea of wanking Harry off either. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, and starts to kneel up. 

While he’s doing that, Nick pulls his shirt off and tries to get his jeans the rest of the way down without kicking Harry. It’s harder than Nick expected getting undressed with another person in your bed. Especially when they’re trying to get undressed as well. But Nick isn’t going to think too much about that because he doesn’t want to freak out, and thinking too much about how he’s getting naked in his bed with a hot boy is the kind of thing that seems likely to make freaking out happen. 

But then he’s naked, and Harry’s naked, and lying down against Nick’s side, and he’s looking at Nick’s face, gaze flicking from Nick’s mouth to his eyes and back, and his hand’s resting on Nick’s chest, and it’s like he’s waiting for Nick to say something. Nick has no idea what, but talking is kind of his speciality, so he opens his mouth and what comes out is, “Can you kiss me?” 

Harry tastes a bit like come, and Nick thinks, _gay gay gay, I’m so gay_ , when all that makes him want to do is lick into Harry’s mouth, suck on his tongue, get his own mouth on Harry’s dick. 

Apart from how he would probably give the worst blow job ever. He should definitely start with a hand job.

Harry’s got hold of Nick’s hand now, is drawing it over and putting it on Harry’s hip, still kissing him deep and hard and dirty. But Nick has to put a stop to that, because he can feel Harry moving where his hips are snugged against Nick’s side, and Nick wants to see. 

The view the way they’re lying isn’t great, so Nick uses the arm around Harry’s shoulders and the hand that’s crept round to the curve of his arse to urge him up. “Wanna kiss you,” he says. “But I wanna watch you first. If that’s okay.” 

Harry’s on his knees before Nick can blink. With the weird awkward gracefulness Nick’s noticed characterizes his movements, Harry straddles Nick’s near thigh, only just managing not to knee him in the nuts, and then leans over to rest his left hand next to Nick’s shoulder while he gets his right on his own dick. From here, Nick has a great view between their bodies, and can touch Harry’s neck, his chest, his waist and arse and thighs. It seems a bit selfish, though, making Harry do all the work like that, and he says so.

“I like showing off,” Harry replies, and, holding Nick’s gaze, licks his hand wrist to fingertips as if to prove it. 

Nick isn’t going to argue. Especially not once Harry starts touching himself. 

He starts with the head, giving it a few good pumps before slowing to long strokes down to the base and back up. Nick likes watching him get stiffer as he goes, watching the tip go redder and wetter as Harry makes it pop again and again out of the ring made by his forefinger and thumb. Nick wants to touch, reaches out, and before he even thinks maybe he should ask, Harry’s saying, “Yes, you can— _nngh_ ” as he rubs his cockhead on Nick’s outstretched fingertips. 

And it’s a dick, not that different from Nick’s own, but it’s so _hot_ , and feels so slick and soft and it _is_ different when he’s not distracted by the sensation of having his dick touched. And the angle is weird—not good for gripping at all. 

But then Harry says, “I like my balls touched,” and those Nick _can_ grip from here, cup and stroke and roll when Harry rocks down into the pressure. His eyes are glued to the movement of Harry’s hand on his dick, the shadowy movement of his own hand between Harry’s legs, but he can feel Harry watching him watching, and that’s hot, too. 

As Harry starts to sweat, Nick’s gaze moves from his dick to the way the muscles move in his arms and his chest, the way his abs tense and thighs shake, and he wants to be over Harry and beside him, not just under him, wants to see him from every angle as he gets closer and closer to coming. He’s still _really_ into how it felt to come in Harry’s mouth, but Nick’s maybe starting to understand why Harry likes making the other person come so much. 

Harry’s nuts get tighter and his legs spread wider, and Nick dares to let his fingers roam up behind his sac, press and stroke there not quite at his hole, where Nick’s discovered feels really good on himself. Harry’s obviously also a fan, because Nick’s barely started rubbing when he makes a strangled noise and comes in long white spurts across Nick’s arm and belly and chest. Neither of them get their hands out from between them before Harry drops down and _devours_ Nick’s mouth. 

They’re still kissing, sticky and tangled together, when Nick’s mum knocks on the door and calls, “Lunch is ready if you boys want some.” 

Nick almost flips Harry onto the floor in his surprise. 

“We’re fine, Mum. Busy. Just—” Fuck. _Fuck_. She mostly doesn’t walk in anymore, but it’s been a while since Nick had a friend over, and he’s not sure if that would change her rules about that. Harry’s no help at all, curled up on himself, clutching a pillow to his face, shaking with what Nick suspects is laughter. “We’ll come down later.” 

“Okay,” she says, sounding extremely suspicious. Nick realizes at some point while they were making out the music stopped. Shit. Could she hear them kissing? How loud can kissing be? Was Nick moaning? At least it means Nick can hear her footsteps walking away and down the stairs, so she’s clearly not lurking outside the door. 

Harry’s still behind his pillow. “That was the worst,” Nick moans into his hands once the footsteps have faded completely.

“She loves you.” Harry’s peering over the pillow’s top, eyes bright with laughter.

“The _worst_ ,” Nick repeats. 

“If we’re going to go back downstairs, we should probably get cleaned up,” Harry says, flopping over onto his stomach so he can more easily poke at the flakes of jizz on Nick’s belly. 

“Are you hungry?” Nick asks. He is, but not hungry enough that lunch sounds better than snogging Harry some more. He might, after all, disappear at any moment. 

Harry’s idle poking becomes a more intentional scritching at the hair arrowing from Nick’s navel to his dick. “Not really,” he says. “Not if you had something else in mind.” 

Nick might have in mind kissing Harry forever.

They don’t make forever, but they snog, and snog some more while Harry scritches and teases and strokes Nick’s belly and waist and hips and thighs until Nick is about to cry with frustration before Harry finally asks if Nick wants him to touch his dick. 

“Yes, please, please touch me,” Nick begs, even though Harry started wanking him the moment the first syllable passed his lips. 

It’s good. Not quite as good as the blowjob maybe, but really good, and Nick is way too far gone to think about it beyond that. His orgasm builds and builds until Harry finally stops teasing and lets him come. There’s a fraction of Nick’s brain that wants to return the favour, but he’s not sure he’ll be moving again before 2002. 

Harry kisses his face and his neck, and whispers in his ear, “You shouldn’t be afraid of asking for what you want.” 

Before Nick can consider an answer, he’s asleep.

~*~

Harry watches Nick sleep for a while, but then his bladder gets the best of him. He pulls on the borrowed dinosaur pajamas from earlier and listens at the door before peeking into the hall. The coast is clear, so he nips across to the loo. 

He washes his hands, but can’t find a facecloth to do anything about the way he stinks of sex. Another peek and a listen to make sure he’s not going to run into Jane or Liv or Nick’s parents while he’s wearing nothing but incriminating sleep pants, and then he’s darting to the airing cupboard for a something smaller than a bath towel to wash up with. 

But when he opens the door and sees not the shelves of sheets and towels he and Nick found earlier, but the large closet that had got him into this to begin with, Harry is faced with a much bigger choice than whether he wants a face cloth or a hand towel. He doesn’t feel ready. Hadn’t even considered that he’d get to return home so soon. Hadn’t considered that he’d be leaving this Nick without getting to spend more time with him. 

But home.

Harry feels sick to his stomach like he used to get before going out on stage in the early days of X-Factor. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, listens for Niall’s voice saying, “Y’alright, mate?” and thinks. The urge to show Nick that he wasn’t lying and he wasn’t crazy, the urge to at least say goodbye before he leaves, has Harry turning towards Nick’s bedroom door. But what if he comes back and the portal home is gone again? What if this is his only opportunity to get back to his own Nick and his band and his life? 

This Nick is someone Harry’s pretty sure he could fall in love with, given some more time with him. But he’s already fallen in love with _his_ Nick, and he can’t leave his mum or Gemma or the boys. He’s too close to everything he’s ever wanted. 

With his heart twisting, and one last look at Nick’s room, Harry steps through the door and shuts it behind him. 

The dizzying claustrophobic crush hits as soon as the door latches, but he’s expecting it this time, so it’s not as bad. Like last time, he grabs for a shelf to steady himself, landing on the rough nap of a towel. That makes the spinning stop, his chest open up again, and he figures that’s as good a sign as any that the room’s done whatever it is it does. He turns the knob and opens the door into a hallway shrouded in night. There’s no sun shining through the window at the end, no nightlight outside Jane’s room. There’s just enough moon he can see Nick’s door, though, so he heads for that. 

When he opens it, he can’t imagine how he hadn’t noticed last night that something was wrong. The room smells of Nick’s cologne and the beach spray he’s been using in his hair recently, and the musky sweat underlying seventeen-year-old Nick’s room is gone. Harry’s duffle is clearly visible in the spill of the streetlight through the blinds, and Nick is blinking owlishly at him from the bed. 

“Where’d you go?” he asks. 

Harry doesn’t even know where to start. 

As he tries to climb into the bed next to Nick, Nick stops him with a hand on his thigh. “Where did these pajamas come from?”

It hadn’t even occurred to Harry he was still wearing the now-stolen pjs. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

Nick rubs the fabric between his fingers and thumb, but lets Harry lie down. “I used to have some like this. I forgot until I saw them just now.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says again. He’s half waiting for Nick to launch into a story of how he loaned them to a boy who claimed to be from the future and gave him a blow job, then he never saw them again. 

Instead, Nick says, “What does _yeah_ mean?” 

“Did you ever—” Harry needs Nick to hold him for this conversation, so he snuggles under the covers and burrows under Nick’s arm. 

“Hey.” Nick rubs Harry’s back, a brisk up and down like he’s trying to warm him up, though Harry doesn’t feel particularly cold. “What’s up?” 

“When you were in college— Was there— The Christmas holidays— Do you remember—”

Once again, Harry wants to call Gemma and ask her how this is supposed to go. Should Nick remember him? Should Nick have already remembered him, or is it only now that Harry’s been back there in this timeline that Nick should know?

“Either I’m tireder than I thought, or you’re making less sense than usual,” Nick says, taking up the stroking again, but this time just slow fingertips on the back of Harry’s neck. 

“Do you remember anything strange happening over the Christmas hols when you were doing A-Levels?” 

“A-Levels?” Nick’s fingers still momentarily then start up again. “Barely remember the break that year at all. I got glandular fever and was out of it for days.”

Harry’d thought Nick was in Uni when he got glandular fever, but if he’s being honest, he wasn’t paying all that much attention to anything except how Nick’s fingers felt playing with Harry’s bracelets while he was telling the story, so he could have been in college still. The irony is, Harry can’t go back in time to undo going back in time and find out if he’s changed the timeline any. At least Nick seems to still expect Harry to be in his bed, still expects to hold him, touch his bare skin. Is he still hosting the breakfast show, though? Is Harry still part of One Direction? Does his band even exist? How does he go about asking all that?

“Harry, are you okay?” Nick stops with the stroking and pushes Harry back just far enough he can look him in the eye. “Do you need me to ring someone?” Someone better in an emotional crisis, Nick means. Harry’s seen him be actually great when he’s got a friend in _real_ need, but middle-ground needy is not Nick’s bag. 

Harry’s not feeling just middle-ground needy, though. He just went back in _time_. And this is so much harder to explain this to his Nick than the one in 2001, and he doesn’t know why. “So you don’t remember meeting a bloke named Harry, who looked an awful lot like me, and claimed to have travelled through time from 2011?”

“Shut up,” Nick says. 

Harry wants to laugh it off, pretend he’s kidding, roll Nick onto his back and tickle him until he has to muffle his laughter in a pillow. But he’s overwhelmed and maybe this is what freaking out feels like, because he can’t. “ _You_ ’re the one who asked where I went.” 

“Yeah, but I meant actually, not what if you invented time travel in your spare time.” 

“I’m not the one who invented it,” Harry argues. “It was just _there_.” 

“Okay, popstar,” Nick says, and kisses him on the forehead. “It’s late. Let’s sleep.” 

Harry doesn’t want to sleep. He’s already had a night’s sleep, and back in the time he left it’s not even two in the afternoon. He wants Nick to listen to him. Wants him to believe. But— “Wait, did you call me ‘popstar’?” 

Nick looks at him again, face pale and shadowed in the near dark. “I frequently call you popstar. It keeps you from getting a big head about being an actual popstar, and keeps me from getting a complex about hanging out with someone who makes girls pass out in the street.” 

He does call Harry popstar sometimes, or at least he did before Harry took a trip in the time-travel airing cupboard. If he still does, maybe not too much has changed. “You act like Aimee didn’t tell me about the night she walked in on three Marc Jacob models blowing you at once.” 

Nick sticks his tongue out. “She was exaggerating. Only two of them were models. The other one was a makeup artist.” 

This detail, Harry knows, is also true from life before Harry went back and picked up dino pjs and maybe gave Nick glandular fever. “God forbid a BBC DJ pulls three models at once,” he tries. 

“I could totally pull three models now I’m a famous DJ,” Nick says. “But I was nought but a lowly TV presenter then.” 

“Never mind models,” Harry says. “You’ve pulled a popstar.” 

Nick boops Harry’s nose. “Far superior, obviously. A time travelling popstar at that. You didn’t buy a Delorean while I wasn’t looking, did you?” 

“More like your mum’s airing cupboard’s a tardis?” 

Nick laughs. Harry doesn’t. 

“Can you imagine if the Doctor stepped out of Mum’s airing cupboard? She’d faint. No room for him in there, though. That woman has every towel and sheet she’s ever bought.” 

Harry sighs. It would be so much easier to just forget it, let Nick think he was messing about. But he had sex with Nick’s teenage self, and even if Nick doesn’t remember, Harry does, and that’s not the kind of secret he can keep. 

“Seventeen-year-old you didn’t believe me at first either,” he says. “Though I think he was starting to by the time I left.” 

It’s not that Nick moves, or even goes stiff, but Harry can definitely feel a—a stillness to how Nick feels in his arms. “You aren’t having a laugh, are you?” It’s not really a question. 

Harry shakes his head. Trying to lighten the mood he’s created, he says, “I don’t know why you complain about what you looked like in college. You were adorable.” 

The always-in-motion energy under Nick’s skin comes back, and he says, “See, now I think you’re lying again.” He doesn’t say it like he actually thinks Harry’s trying to trick him, more in his usual self-deprecating way, but Harry still feels anxious and not quite right.

“Nope, not lying.” Harry brushes Nick’s hair back off his face. “I sucked you off and everything.” 

He thought it would come out like a joke, but instead the words make Harry feel even sicker, like they’re playing out a scene in a movie where the roguish love-interest admits to the heroine he’s been cheating. Even though they’ve never talked at all about being exclusive, and it was Nick Harry’d been with, not some lad in a club. 

Part of him expects Nick to lash out, or turn away. Instead, Nick stares, his eyes going wide and white in the dim of the room. “That wasn’t a dream?” 

Harry can’t parse the words at first, is still trying to make them about Nick being cross or disappointed. When he realizes, he has to catch his breath. 

“You _do_ remember?” The disquiet he’s felt since Nick asked where he’d been crystalizes into _this_ , this need for their stolen morning to be something they could _share_ , not something Harry had to leave behind. He needs it to mean something. 

“I— While I was ill, I started having really vivid dreams.” Nick does a pursed-lips thing and an airy hand gesture that Harry takes to mean vivid _sex_ dreams is what he’s saying. “I thought maybe in my delirium I’d watched some really amazing porn that I could never find again.” 

It’s something. “It was pretty amazing,” Harry says. The urge to kiss Nick is overwhelming, but he still can’t help feeling like he and Nick aren’t quite on the same page here. “The dreams were—?” Harry’s not even sure what he’s asking.

“Yeah. They were good— I was already pretty sure I was gay before that, but the dreams were like, like it wasn’t as abstract anymore. In a good way. So if that was you, cheers, mate.” Nick gives him a cheeky thumbs up, but his smile is sweet like he actually means the words.

Harry’s so relieved. “Can I kiss you?” he asks. It comes out more tentatively than even the first night when he still couldn’t believe Nick was finally saying yes to his advances. 

Nick looks at him like he’s mad. “’Course,” he says. “Why wo—”

But Harry doesn’t wait to see what Nick’s wondering. Rolling them so Nick’s on his back, Harry gets both hands tangled in his hair, his mouth covering Nick’s completely. He sucks at Nick’s tongue, licks into his mouth, tries to explain everything he’s feeling with a kiss—an impossible task, as he couldn’t even explain half of it if he had all the words in the world at his disposal. 

“Haz,” Nick says, low, once Harry’s finally stopped trying to devour his mouth and is burrowing his way into Nick’s neck instead. “Harry, love? Are you alright?” 

“What if I lost you both?” Harry asks, his voice cracking on the words.

“I’m right here,” Nick promises.

Harry takes a deep breath. Nick smells of _his_ Nick, just like he did when Harry got up for a wee, hours (or minutes, depending on who’s talking) ago, and he doesn’t seem to have been scarred by Harry coming back in time and seducing him and then fucking off without so much as a goodbye. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. 

“I’m sorry I don’t remember—you know. Before. But I’m here now. And I think Mum likes you more than me, so I’ll have to keep you around.” 

“She liked me then, too,” Harry says, voice small, but he’s smiling a bit into the scratch of stubble under Nick’s jaw. 

“You met our Eileen?” Nick sounds like that’s more inconceivable than the airing cupboard being a tardis. 

“I helped her put away the shopping. We had a cup of tea.” 

“No bloody wonder she likes you more. And this might be why she’s always said you were a polite boy, even back when you were on X-Factor, and cheeky was a much better word for you.” 

“Heeeey,” Harry complains. He’s always polite. Even when he’s cheeky. “You don’t think she remembers me, do you?” 

Nick seems to think for a moment. “Not, like, _remembers_ you, but maybe you left an impression, and she transferred that onto you, when she saw you again. 

“She’d probably have said if she remembered me.” Harry can’t take more explanations. He _can’t_.

“I’m sure,” Nick agrees. 

Actually, Harry’s not sure he can take any more of this conversation at all. “You still sure I can’t get you off til tomorrow?” He feels a million times better than he did, but he’s never going to be able to go to sleep like this, and sucking Nick off would almost definitely help. 

“You don’t have to,” Nick says. 

“But what I’m asking is, will you let me?” 

Nick huffs a bemused laugh and gives Harry a quick kiss. “Since you asked so nicely,” he says. 

Harry doesn’t waste time, doesn’t intend to wait for Nick to explain how a hand job is just fine. He disappears under the duvet, scooting down the bed and tugging Nick’s boxers down with him. Obviously, Nick’s gone soft while Harry was busy time travelling and then angsting about it, but that’s okay. Harry’s pretty sure he can suck a soft dick just as well as a hard one, and then it won’t be soft anymore anyway. 

“Jesus,” Nick hisses when Harry doesn’t even stroke it first, just puts it in his mouth, tongues the head, takes as much of it as he can. It feels good to suck it. To close his lips around it, close his eyes, and rub it with his tongue. He feels the cool air as Nick lifts the duvet to look at him, but he doesn’t look back. Nick’s thighs are solid under his hands, the hair crisper, not as soft as it was when Nick was seventeen, and that grounds him. Same with Nick’s hand in his hair, large and solid and confident, not guiding, really, not even holding Harry in place, just _there_ , a point of focus. 

Harry focuses, too, on the way Nick’s dick plumps up, gets harder to hold in his mouth, the way it gets harder to keep his teeth out of the way, how his jaw starts to feel the stretch. He slides his hands up to Nick’s hips, uses his elbows to pull Nick’s thighs more tightly to his ribs. He wants to feel Nick around him, holding him, feel how solid he is. Harry’s own legs are hanging off the end of the bed, not enough to touch the floor, just enough that gravity’s dragging them, and it takes a bit of effort to hold them up. It’s déjà vu to doing this an hour ago in this same bed, but Harry tries to let that be comforting instead of disturbing.

He focuses on how the effort to hold his legs up tightens his arse, and the way it makes his dick press against the mattress, and he grips Nick’s thighs with his armpits, squeezes the flesh of his hips and waist with his fingers, sucking, sucking, sucking all the while. He does it slow and steady, like he’s trying to get a thick shake through a straw, breathing through his nose. Nick’s twitching with the sensation, abs jerking every time Harry tongues with pointed effort at the head, but he’s almost all the way hard now, is cupping Harry’s skull encouragingly, not trying to pull him off, so Harry figures it’s not too much. 

For Harry, it’s just right. Nick going hard in his mouth is even hotter than he thought it would be, and there’s something calming about having him there, the smell and taste and feel of him all around, his dick thicker and longer than the one Harry’d had in his mouth barely an hour ago, harder to breathe around, but easier too, because this Nick’s not thrusting unpredictably, is letting Harry set the pace. 

Which, he could go faster, probably. He does, and finally gets his hand involved, lets the rhythm instead of the act of sucking soothe him. He’s listening for noises, has forgotten Nick will be quiet because of his parents, and when he doesn’t hear them, he redoubles his efforts, twisting and pulling, bobbing, twirling his tongue around and around the head. He barely notices when Nick’s grip on his hair starts to hurt. Only the pulse of Nick’s cock in his hand lets him know when Nick’s about to come. He keeps Nick in his mouth, sucking until Nick finally pushes him off with a weak “too much”. 

After, Harry crawls back up Nick’s body and kisses him, hard. Nick pets him, hands sloppy, but comforting none-the-less. He’s too busy trying to catch his breath to kiss properly, though, so Harry settles down on Nick’s chest, with his face tucked in the crook of Nick’s neck. 

“So you blew me twice in one day, but I only got one blowjob out of it?” Nick says after a while. “That doesn’t seem very fair.” 

Harry laughs lowly. “I didn’t get _any_ blowjobs out of it. How fair is that?” 

“Not,” Nick says, not very subtly trying to ease a hand between them. “I’ll do you twice tomorrow.” His palm finds Harry’s dick, his thumb tracing up the side to rub the head. “This okay for now?” 

Harry _loves_ Nick’s hands, and besides, right now he wants Nick’s arms around him way more than he wants a blowjob. “Perfect,” he says. 

And it is. Nick shifts them so he’s got Harry cradled against his side, and between them they get the borrowed dinosaur pjs off and onto the floor. He goes slow without teasing, lets Harry rub searching fingers over his chest and down his sides. It might be a bit _more_ perfect if Nick were kissing him, but Nick’s looking down their bodies at where Harry’s dick is sliding through the circle of his fingers and thumb, and he’s murmuring things about how stupidly hot Harry is, and Harry is _definitely_ not going to complain about that. 

His orgasm is sudden, spilling over just when he thinks it’s building, and he makes a little squeak of surprise against Nick’s shoulder. 

“Gi’us those dino jobs,” Nick says, kissing his forehead. “Not the first time they’ve been used as a jizz rag.” 

“Classy,” Harry says, grabbing Nick’s arm to keep him balanced as he reaches them off the floor.

“We’ll have to sneak them into the washing, though, or Mum will wonder where they came from. I complained for _months_ that she’d lost them, and they were my favourite.” 

“We can take them back to London,” Harry says, giving himself a wipe with one leg while Nick uses the other on his hand. “I need new sleep pants for when we go on tour.” 

“Like you sleep in a trouser,” Nick counters. “Never.” 

“For lounging. Paul gets narky if I only wear my pants.” 

“You do have a distracting knee,” Nick says, stretching down to pat one of the knees in question. He balls up the pjs and throws them toward Harry’s duffle. “Fine, you’ve got yourself some new PJs, thief.” 

“Technically, you did give them to me to wear.” 

“Shush. Sleeping time now.” Nick lays a still slightly sticky finger across Harry’s lips. Harry considers biting it playfully, but Nick’s right. It is sleeping time; he’s suddenly exhausted. He kisses it softly instead.

“Sleeping time,” he agrees. 

Harry’s almost asleep when Nick murmurs, “Harry?” so softly Harry almost doesn’t hear it. 

“Mm?” Harry answers.

“Do us a favour? No more trips to the airing cupboard before morning, okay? At least not without me.” 

Harry gives Nick a squeeze. “Promise,” he says. 

Different time zones is one thing, but Harry plans to avoid any further time travel for as long as he can.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to find me on tumblr, I'm [river-b](http://river-b.tumblr.com), and this story is rebloggable at [this post.](http://river-b.tumblr.com/post/98954329290/kiss-me-in-your-childhood-bed-13840-words-by)


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